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When she steps off the ship, Jaime feels as though he has been transported in time. He is six and ten again, watching Cersei gliding toward him. Her hair gleaming pure gold in the sun, emerald eyes shining. But the smile on this girl’s face is sweeter and more genuine than one that had ever graced Cersei’s. There is no trace of mischief or scheming beneath, just sweet, pure happiness, the likes of which he thought he’d never see again. She is a ghost, and a living breathing, beautiful girl all at once.
“Myrcella,” he breathes, not even able to believe that she is here, in the flesh. That she has survived when Joffrey and Tommen have not. That Prince Doran did not kill her, that he let her return.
“Uncle,” Myrcella cries gaily, no anger in her voice. “Oh, it is good to see you again.”
She kisses both of his cheeks, and steps back to properly look at him, as though she were the parent and he the child.
“Your hand,” she whispers, fingers brushing the gold. He expects to see disgust in her eyes, or worse, pity, but instead he is greeted by a fierce kind of resolve, a type of pride. His eyes, he thinks, wonderingly. He’s seen those eyes in the mirror often enough, when he dares to look.
She looks up and smiles at him, and pushes back her hair. “We are both missing pieces it would seem, Unlce,” she says, lightly, almost laughing, and he marvels at her. Her strength, her pride, her sweetness. She is the best of them, it would seem, but he does not know how he could have created something so good. Nothing seems good to him anymore. Everything he touches turns to rot and dust, to filth, to destruction. Not gold, never gold.
Yet, Myrcella is golden. Tall and beautiful, and gorgeous and golden.. And she will be Queen.
He does not want to crown her. A crown will ruin her, as it ruined her mother. It hurts to think of Cersei, even now, sitting smugly on the throne, driving the realm to ruin. She will ruin Myrcella too. He cannot let that happen.
“Your Grace,” he says, falling to one knee and pushing thoughts of Cersei and Aerys from his mind. “Allow me to be the first of your Queensguard.”
“Ser Uncle,” Myrcella says, laughing, gripping his shoulder, bidding him rise. “You shall continue as my Lord Commander. I would have none other be my shadow night and day.”
He smiles at her, his first genuine smile in what feels like decades, and brushes his fingers over her golden hair, the way he once did with Cersei. She takes his arm and he guides her into the Red Keep, to her Throne.
He should have remembered what happens to the things he touches.
*
When Myrcella is safely clustered away with Cersei in her chambers, Cersei hissing at him that she wanted to spend time with her. daughter and shooing him away as though he were one of Tommen’s cats, he wanders through the Keep, thinking to make things safer. Somehow. He doesn’t know how though, not when Tommen was poisoned, not when Tommen died in his arms.
He tries to shut the memories away, of little Tommen’s face going blue as he held him, as he struggled to breathe, as he cried, and shook and sobbed.
Poison., Qyburn had said. On his kitten’s paw. The cat had scratched him and…
Cersei had slapped him. Had screamed that Tyrion was still in the walls. Had berated him for failing again, and again, and again. She called him useless, and in truth, he’d never felt as useless as he did watching Tommen.
I will not fail Myrcella., he thinks to himself. I will not let my daughter die. .
He is so lost in his thoughts he does not notice that his wandering has brought him into the kitchens, until someone nearly hits him with a hard loaf of bread.
When he looks up, he sees his second ghost of the day.
Lewyn Martell sits at one of the kitchen tables, legs casually stretched out atop, a skin of Dornish red in one hand, spinning a jeweled dagger in the other.
How many times, how many times had he left a shift guarding Aerys and stopped in the kitchens for food and found Lewyn like this? How many times had he sat and japed with the man, lewd, bawdy japes that made him blush like a maiden at first.
How many times had he sat across the table from Lewyn, admiring his confidence, his skill, admiring him.
Lewyn is dead though, Jaime reminds himself, Lewyn is dead, and he feels like he’s going mad, that losing his hand, and his lover, and his sweet son has finally caused him to lose his mind, but then Lewyn turns and sets down his wineskin and leaps up to offer him a sheepish bow.
“Lord Commander,” he says, and though his voice is deep, it is not quite Lewyn’s. He’s younger too, Jaime thinks, and his eyes aren’t quite as lined. This boy did not laugh as much as Lewyn did.
“I am Prince Trystane,” he says, back straight, voice proud, haughty even. “Queen Myrcella’s husband.”
His use of titles does not escape Jaime, and he offers Trystane a stiff bow. “My Prince,” he says, and feels a sharp pang remembering how Arthur would call Lewyn that mockingly.
Prince Trystane gazes at him appraisingly, eyes lingering on his golden hand for just a moment before snapping back to his eyes.
“My condolences for your losses, Ser,” he says. “Myrcella was inconsolable when Nym wrote to her of Tommen. There was little I or anyone could do to comfort her.”
Trystane’s face is carefully neutral, no inkling of tension or anger, or malice, bust Jaime knows calculation when he hears it. Mentioning Lady Nymeria, the Viper’s own daughter…
She would have had access to those cats Jaime thinks wildly. But struggles to keep his face blank. He would investigate that later, away from Lady Nymeria’s cousin.
“I hear you lost a brother as well,” he says, instead watching Trystane’s face carefully. But again the boy’s expression remains neutral.
“Yes,” he says simply. “These are hard times for families.”
Jaime cannot help but feel that the boy is sizing him up, inspecting him for something. But then Trystane laughs a little dryly.
“Truth be told, Lord Commander,” and again Jaime notes his use of formal titles, “I did not want to bring her back to this place. Her brothers died here. I would have kept her safe in Dorne.”
“Yes,” Jaime says sharply, “where she was only maimed and scarred, not killed.”
“One madman in Dorne is better than the thousands hiding in the cracks and crevices of King’s Landing,” Trystane says hotly. “Or the madmen who parade out in the open,” he says, eyes hard, and Jaime knows he is talking of Cersei.
“Myrcella will be safe. I trust you’ll ensure that no one poisons her,” he says, hoping his meaning isn’t lost.
Trystane’s eyes narrow, but his smile goes feral.
“Myrcella needs not fear poisons,” he says, and the laughter in his voice makes Jaime’s hair stand on end. “She’s become quite the viper in her own right.”
Trystane makes him a short bow then, and takes his leave.
Though not before he hisses “Lord Commander” in Jaime’s ear.
*
Myrcella’s coronation is tomorrow, and Cersei’s paranoia has reached new levels. She has commanded that someone sleep in the throne room, so that none might sabotage it, has ordered all animals kept away from Myrcella, has ordered three food tasters aside from just Blount.
She would have ordered Trystane away from her too, but the boy had stood up to her and proclaimed that he was her husband and that she had no right to send him from Myrcella’s side.
From her bed, Jaime thinks with a frown. Already, in just a fortnight since they arrived, there are whispers of their impropriety. From the frequency with which he shares her bed, to the fact that they’ve been found together all over the keep at all hours of the day. Whispers of Dornish lewdness plague Myrcella already, with people who would rather a King than a Queen.
“Mother, stop,” Myrcella says, cutting Cersei’s tirade short exasperatedly. “Trystane will spend the night with me, as he always does, and Ser Uncle will spend the night guarding my door. Won’t you, Ser?”
Myrcella looks up at him with those wide green eyes, and he nods.
“See, Mother? I will be quite safe, don’t fret.”
She kisses Cersei on her cheek, gathers her gown about her, and nods expectantly toward him and Trystane.
They follow wordlessly, but Jaime can see the smirk on Trystane’s face at Myrcella’s commands.
He throws that smirk at him when he enters her chambers behind her, as Jaime takes his post by the door.
*
It is past midnight when Myrcella’s chamber door opens slowly, hinges creaking, sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway.
Jaime is instantly at attention, left hand going to his sword, but then he hears Myrcella’s sweet giggle.
“Relax, Ser. I had a request of you. Might you come inside?”
“I cannot leave—“ Jaime begins, but Myrcella shushes him.
“Your Queen commands it, Ser.” She smiles up at him playfully, green eyes bright, as though it were midday and not midnight. He can barely see the sleeve of her white nightgown from where she peers around the door.
“Myrcella, you know that I cannot. Your safety--”
“Are you telling me I won’t be safe if the Lord Commander is actually inside my rooms?” Myrcella asks cheekily, a pout forming on her face. “Are you really saying ‘no’ to your Queen, Ser?”
Suddenly he is taken back, years and years, to just after Cersei married Robert. Cersei standing with her hands on her hips, top her dress undone, goading him into fucking her.
Would you really say no to your Queen?
He shakes his head to clear the memory. Myrcella is not Cersei. She is his sweet daughter, a good girl, and mayhaps… mayhaps she just wants to talk about Tommen, as she cannot do with Trystane.
He follows her inside.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Trystane stretched out in the bed, asleep. He is bare-chested and the sheets cover just to his waist. It surprises him, but asleep he looks more like Lewyn than he does awake, and Jaime’s chest tightens. His brothers. His brothers all hated him at the end. His thoughts shift to Tyrion, and wonders, not for the first time, where he is now. If he were even still alive. If he were, like Cersei insisted, hiding in the walls of the castle.
He would not have hurt Tommen though, Jaime thinks. He liked Tommen.
“You are a million miles away, Ser,” Myrcella tells him, handing him a cup of wine.
He means to tell her that he should not drink, not while he was on duty, but one look from her silences him, and he accepts the wine as graciously as he can.
“Dornish Red?” He asks, surprised. He has no liking for the sour vintage.
“I’ve grown fond of all things Dornish,” Myrcella says with a little smile, and a glance toward the bed where her husband sleeps.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” She asks, gazing fondly at him. “Almost unfairly so. With that moonlight all about him, he could be a painting.”
He has to laugh at that.
“Such romantic notions, Princess,” he says, and struggles through another sip of the wine.
Myrcella grins at him.
“Aren’t I supposed to be romantic about my husband?” She demands, but smiles at him nonetheless. Then she asks, picture of innocence, “Was there anyone you were ever… romantic about?”
His mind is filled with images of golden hair, and emerald eyes, and creamy skin. Pink lips, and flushed cheeks, and Jaime, Jaime, you’re home, brother, you’re home.
“No,” he lies. “I joined the Kingsguard at seventeen. I had little time for romance.”
“Why Uncle,” Myrcella laughs. “I do believe you’re lying to me.”
“I—no,” Jaime says quickly, but Myrcella is already up on her feet, crossing the room, and plopping herself on his lap.
“It’s treason to lie to your Queen,” she singsongs from his lap, poking hard at his chest. “Tell the truth.”
He cannot help but laugh with her, resting his head against hers. The shades of gold match perfectly, and suddenly Jaime regrets all the time he lost with this sweet little girl. All the times she could have spent on his lap, and laughing, and playing with him.
From her spot on his lap, with her hand on his chest, she looks so much like Cersei, like his Cersei, that his heart begins to race.
“There it is,” Myrcella whispers. She takes his face between her hands and kisses him full on the mouth.
Jaime freezes, brain struggling to make sense of the situation. His body is responding to the kiss, so like Cersei’s, but this is Myrcella and this is wrong, and before he can push her away, a strong arm grabs his good hand and twists it behind his back.
“Well, well, well,” a deep voice all but purrs into his ear. “Well done.”
Myrcella breaks the kiss, and looks up at her husband with a sly smile.
“I told you I could, did I not?”
“I’m sorry for having doubted you, my Queen,” Trystane says with a smirk, tying Jaime’s good hand to the side of the chair with what felt like the silken belt from Myrcella’s gown.
“You owe me,” Myrcella continues, as though Jaime isn’t there, as though her husband hasn’t just tied him to the chair, as though she hadn’t just kissed him.
“I always deliver,” Trystane says, leaning over Jaime and claiming her mouth in a kiss. This close, Jaime can see the way his tongue pushes into her mouth, the way he bites, none too gently on her bottom lip. He sees Myrcella’s hand move from his chest, and from the sound Trystane makes, he knows that she has just begun to stroke his cock.
“Mycella!” Jaime shouts, and the two break apart and turn toward him with identical smirks. “Myrcella this is wrong, this is obscene, this is…”
“What I want,” Myrcella says, releasing Trystane’s cock and tracing her fingers along his jawline. “I want you, Ser,” Myrcella whispers, leaning forward and tracing his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.
“Myrcella, I’m your—”
“Uncle?” Trystane finishes for him. The Dornish Prince has come to stand behind him, leaning forward to run his hands over his chest. “You’re just her uncle. My uncle,” Trystane smirks at him, “my uncle taught me all I knew.”
The meaning isn’t lost on Jaime, and he suppresses a shudder as Trystane drags his teeth along his earlobe.
He is repulsed. Myrcella is his daughter, and the thought of Oberyn ever…
But their ministrations are heady and the feel of Myrcella writhing in his lap, and Trystane biting at his neck is torturous, and he can feel his cock beginning to stir in his breeches. He tries to push her off his lap, but he cannot, not with just his golden hand, and not with Trystane’s hands over his chest, pressing him in place.
“Myrcella. Stop,” he says, using his most commanding voice, while Trystane chuckles against his neck.
“You don’t give the commands here, ser,” Myrcella says, turning so that she is straddling his lap. “I am your Queen and you will do as I say.” She sits back on his lap, undoubtedly feeling him half-hard beneath her as she straddles him. She smirks.
“And I think you like that,” she breathes into his ear, and tilts her face up so that Trystane can kiss her.
“After all,” Trystane says, turning his face so that Jaime is forced to look him in the eye, “you and her mother worked so hard to ensure that Myrcella would be Queen, didn’t you?”
Jaime’s mind is flooded with memories, and he closes his eyes against the rush of disgust and revulsion he feels at Trystane, at Myrcella, at himself. He cannot stop the images that flash before his eyes. Aerys and his blood on his sword. Elia and the children wrapped in Lannister cloaks. Robert ripped from throat to groin. Joffrey. Tommen.
So much blood, and so much death, and it’s all on his hands. All of it. It started with him, it’s his fault and—
“Shh, Uncle,” Myrcella says, kissing away the tears on his cheeks. “I still believe that you are a good man. You just have… some bad sides. We all do.”
“No,” Jaime says, trying to sound firm. “Myrcella this is wrong, you know this is wrong.”
“There’s a lot wrong in this world,” Myrcella says. “Joff was wrong, Tommen’s death was wrong, Mother is wrong. Love is not.”
She smiles at him sweetly, and then up at Trystane.
“Trystane taught me that. The Dornish believe that no love is wrong. And I do love you, Uncle.”
She rests her golden head on his chest, and presses a kiss to his clavicle.
“Don’t you love me?”
Cersei’s words. Myrcella’s mouth. He is damned, damned, damned anyway.
He kisses her.
She wastes no time in pushing her tongue into his mouth, dragging her teeth over his lips. Trystane busies himself undoing the top of Myrcella’s nightgown, and his tunic and suddenly her breasts are pressed against his chest.
Her nipples are hard, and she rubs herself against him, and fuck, fuck, fuck this is wrong, this is so wrong, but he loses himself in the kiss all the same.
She breaks it first and leans back. Her cheeks are flushed, and the blush runs down her throat to her breasts. She’s beautiful, so beautiful.
“She is beautiful,” Trystane says, and only then does it realize that he’s been speaking aloud.
Trystane leans over his shoulder and palms Myrcella’s breast. She arches into his touch, with a moan. “Kiss him,” she breathes, and obediently, without hesitation, Trystane leans down and kisses him, all tongue and teeth.
Trystane’s kisses are rough, and his stubble drags along Jaime’s jaw. It is nothing like Cersei, like Myrcella, but it is not entirely unpleasant. When he pulls away, Jaime feels breathless, like he’s drowning beneath the combination of Myrcella and Trystane.
He opens his mouth to protest again, but immediately it is filled with Myrcella’s tongue, and her body presses against him as she grinds down on his cock.
He feels, rather than sees, Trystane’s hand slide down his chest, and slip under Myrcella’s nightgown. He can feel, even through his breeches, Trystane’s fingers rubbing over her clit and pressing into her.
Myrcella releases his mouth to moan, and she grinds down even harder on Trystane’s hand and on his cock.
Trystane’s hand reaches for him then, unlacing the ties of his breeches, and drawing his cock out, stroking him, with his fingers still wet from Myrcella.
It feels wrong, entirely wrong, but good, and gods Jaime almost almost wishes that Myrcella would just sink down on his cock.
But of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Trystane all but pulls her off his lap, and he feels entirely stupid with his good hand tied to the chair, still nearly fully clothed, with his cock out, standing stiff.
He moves to stand, but Myrcella stills his movements with a raised hand.
“Who first?” She asks Trystane and the Dornishman smirks.
“You, darling,” he says softly, coming to stand behind her and cupping her breasts, rolling her pink nipples between long brown fingers. “He’s going to watch while I fuck you.”
Myrcella smiles brightly, and strips off her nightgown while Trystane positions another chair directly in front of Jaime. Her body is perfect. High, full breasts, slim waist, and full hips. The soft blonde hair covering her mound causes Jaime’s mouth to go dry and his cock to stiffen even more.
He hates himself, but he wants her, he wants this sweet girl who reminds him of his youth, his sister, the lover he lost.
Trystane sits opposite him, and unlaces his breeches almost lazily, fingers barely brushing his cock. Myrcella crosses to him, sits on his lap so that she is facing Jaime, and slowly, slowly, lowers herself down onto Trystane’s cock.
It’s obscene, barely seeing the pink of Myrcella’s cunt stretched around Trystane, watching the way her breasts bounce with every move of her hips or his. Trystane has her hips in a tight grip, and he pounds up, relentlessly. Myrcella loves it though, and he can see her wetness all over his cock every time he pulls her up. The slick slapping sounds their coupling makes, along with Myrcella’s moans drives all his blood to his cock, and he hates himself for it.
He looks away, closing his.
“Eyes open, ser,” Trystane says sharply, and he can tell from the lack of noise that he has stilled his motions.
Jaime forces himself to meet Trystane’s eyes, to take in the sight of Myrcella’s legs spread wide on Trystane’s lap, of his cock buried inside her.
“You’re going to watch as I fuck your darling… niece, sir, and you’re going to enjoy it.”
Jaime opens his mouth to protest but Trystane cuts him off.
“And then you’re going to enjoy one of us fucking you.”
His throat tightens at that because it sounds as though Trystane means that he might… and—
But Trystane has started fucking Myrcella in earnest again, hard and fast, his fingers working over her clit, and Myrcella is practically screaming now, and Jaime wants to get up, cross the room and grab her and—
And what, he thinks. Take her away from him? Make her a little girl again? Fuck her senseless?
He looks up at her, studying her face, and the minute his green eyes lock on hers, she comes with a scream on Trystane’s cock.
The Dornishman smirks as he lifts her off gently, holding her as she sinks boneless onto his lap. Through Myrcella’s splayed legs, Jaime can see Trystane’s cock, still hard, and covered in Myrcella’s wetness.
She gives him a weary smile as she climbs off Trystane’s lap and onto his, allowing the tip of his cock to barely brush against her entrance. She’s sopping wet, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to try to grab her with his golden hand and force her onto him, or to push her way.
But she kisses him, filling his mouth with her tongue, while Trystane unties his hand from the chair. Barely even breaking the kiss, Myrcella slides from his lap and pulls him up, tugging him toward the bedroom.
Jaime’s head is spinning, and he follows blindly, wildly, guiltily—but he follows all the same. The oft told story of him clutching Cersei’s heel comes to mind, and when Myrcella squeezes his hand and pulls him onto the bed to lay on top of her, he knows he is well and truly damned.
But still he kisses her, and when she takes his hand and puts it to her breast, he doesn’t pull it away. And when she guides his golden hand to her cunt, and puts just one of the cool metal fingers at her entrance, he doesn’t pull it away either.
He forgets Trystane, and tries to forget Myrcella, tries to picture Cersei instead, a Cersei who so lovingly accepts him, pretend it’s her, and it’s not hard, not when there is golden hair splayed beneath him, and a sweet mouth, and a warm, wet cunt. But then he feels Trystane’s tongue pressing at his ass, and it all comes flooding back.
He yelps.
He yelps and it is most unmanly and undignified, but he yelps and tries to pull away, but Myrcella’s arms around him lock him in place.
“Shh,” she soothes sweetly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “He’s very good at that. You’ll enjoy it.”
But he can’t—he won’t. He squirms and tries to pull away, but the boy’s tongue is insistent, and finally Trystane simply grabs his hips, stills him, and shoves his tongue into him, curling and flicking and—
Gods.
He does not want to moan, does not want to give him the satisfaction, but then Myrcella slips her hand between them and strokes his cock, and Trystane’s tongue licks around his rim, and then pushes in, and it’s too much, and he’s going to—
“No, ser,” Trystane laughs, clamping his hand firmly around the base of his cock. “You come when we tell you to.”
Jaime cannot help the whine that escapes his throat, but Trystane just squeezes the base of his cock a little harder, determined to not let him come. He pulls him up to stand, at the edge of the bed, and then bends him over just slightly.
Jaime tenses, tries to escape, to go anywhere else, but then Myrcella is there, laying across the bed, head dangling over the edge and taking his cock into her throat.
And it’s good, so good, and so wrong, and Trystane’s fingers are in his ass, spreading him open, and probing and touching, and though he feels his cock softening, Myrcella’s mouth pulls him right back to hardness, and gods he hates this and he loves this and—
Trystane’s cock is in him, and he’s fucking him with the same brutal pace he’d fucked Myrcella with, and Jaime is torn between pain and pleasure, and pain, and pleasure, and suddenly Trystane changes his angle—pulls Jaime back just so—and Myrcella tips her head back and lets his cock glide into her throat and there’s nothing but pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.
Jaime comes so hard, he blacks out.
When he comes to, he is slumped across the bed, and Myrcella is kneeling over him, and Trystane is coming on her face. They’re both moaning and Jaime groans.
Myrcella giggles. High-pitched, and sweet, and innocent.
She pulls his face up to kiss him, and he can taste himself, and Trystane, and gods he’s repulsed, and conflicted, and miserable, and so utterly spent.
Myrcella smiles at him.
It chills him.
“Lord Commander,” she says, softly, sweetly, and he can see her again, stepping off the ship, the sweetest picture of innocence. He can barely remember her birth, just another golden child that he could never hold. Jaime hates it all, curses the gods, Cersei, himself for creating all of this.
“Lord Commander, you guard me so well. I think I shall have you stand guard every night of my reign.”
Trystane chuckles darkly, and brushes his fingers almost tenderly through Jaime’s hair, and cups Myrcella’s cheek.
“Queen Myrcella Baratheon, First of her name. Long may she reign.”